


Sun upon the White City

by Messallina



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Messallina/pseuds/Messallina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war may have ended, but not all stories were finished. There were still hearts left to heal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death and the Maiden

**Author's Note:**

> This is mainly books-based fic, requires its knowledge. Though it doesn’t follow the original storyline entirely.  
> Disclaimer: I own nothing, make no money from this, etc… Only this short story as whole is my work. Oh, and yes, the names of chapters are names of songs. This one is Schubert’s string quartet in D minor.  
> And to the story…

The sun shone upon the white city, announcing the long awaited arrival of spring. Darkness of the Shadow no longer loomed menacingly over Ephel Dúath. He was defeated. The air cleared, and within it - a slight fragrance of the first blooms. The silence of the previous days was replaced with singing, rejoicing and repairing what had been destroyed during war. All day long, hammers hitting stones could be heard, work masters shouting orders to workers. Yet one place seemed untouched by all this fuss. Silent as ever before, the Houses of Healings stood there tall with white shining walls, secluded from everything else. Inside them was a garden, offering a breath-taking view of the city, but not quite within its reach.   
There, beside a great, cold, stone pillar, stood a figure. Her mantle of dark blue with silver stars embroidered around hem blew in a breeze. She just stood there, waiting. She knew he would eventually come. He always did. Sure enough, footsteps could soon be heard, nearing her in a pattern she had come to know so well in the past days. They drew closer and closer and stopped just behind her. She stood there, didn’t turn, the still beauty of a cold marble statue.   
“Good afternoon, my lord.”  
That broke the spell, revealing she was a living, breathing being. Oh, how enticing she looked, cloaked in his mother’s mantle, with hood drawn up, hiding hair of gold crowning her head.   
“Good afternoon to you too, White Lady of Rohan.”  
They stood silent for a moment or two, before Faramir spoke again.   
“The city will soon be just as it used to be. What wounds the battle of Pelennor Fields left will soon be concealed. Minas Tirith shall stand proud and undefeated once again.”  
“Alas, my lord, not all of the wounds are in a stone. What of the injured soldiers? Not all of the wounds are visible in stone and mortar. What of the hearts of soldiers, who had seen their friends lie in puddles of blood with an arrow in their chest?”  
Faramir’s heart swelled. Oh, how he longed to take her in his arms-. He quickly suppressed such thoughts. Besides the obvious impropriety of such behaviour, she did not want him to. Cruel, cruel Fate, dangling his heart’s desire barely at arm’s length, yet with great chasm in between, one he despite all of his bravery, couldn’t bring himself to leap over.  
Her speech was passionate, but drained whatever of her energy was left. Then her voice cracked with poorly hidden sobs, tears welled in her eyes, the last question coming out as a mere whisper.   
“What of my heart?”  
She didn’t know what possessed her, her, who was always so calm and cool. Never before let she anyone know of her weaker side, except her beloved brother. Even Aragorn, in whom she had confided her hopes and fears, knew not. Yet this man, who had been a stranger to her not so long ago made crumble the walls she had enclosed the remainders of her shattered heart in. She yearned for King’s admiration, hoping to gain it by bravery, strength and skills with sword. But she wasn’t that strong. She was tired of being strong.   
“Time has the power to heal, to take sorrows away from a weary heart.”  
“Yet I believe mine is beyond repair.”  
Faramir put a finger under her chin, lifted her head and forced her to look directly into his grey eyes.   
“Never give up on hope, Éowyn.”  
Both his words and the shock at the use of her first name caused her to withdraw, eyeing him warily, though not at all displeased.   
“I am afraid I must return to my chamber. As always, it was a pleasure to talk to you.”  
The bud of hope Faramir had in his heart blossomed when she did not reprimand him about the proper way of addressing her and was only a bit startled. Feeling brave, he offered her his arm with words: “Then allow me to accompany you.”  
Éowyn hesitated for a moment, but then, though tentatively, took it. Together, they walked through the Houses. Occasionally, a healer would walk by, greeting them with nod. Not a word was exchanged between them, ‘til they stopped in front of an oak door leading to Éowyn’s chambers, those chambers with windows facing east, which Faramir had requested for her after their first meeting. He opened the door, allowed his lady fair to enter first and closed the door.   
“May I?”   
He gestured towards the hood.   
“You may.”   
She replied, seeing no harm in his request. Her mind was clouded, bothered by her earlier outburst, fighting emotions, which threatened to overpower sensibility. In the meantime, oblivious of her inner battle, Faramir drew the soft cloth down. As a golden waterfall, the cascade of hair splayed on her back. So different from the raven-like tresses he had.   
“Your hair is like my mothers. I recall how they used to feel upon my face as she kissed me good-night. She was so beautiful, I believe her beauty would be equal to Elven-maiden she was named after if only she had ever smiled.”  
Had Éowyn but looked at him, she would see his soft grey eyes filled with sorrow. First, his mothers’ passing, then Boromir’s death and, as if this wasn’t enough, his fathers’ final madness. He was born to be tormented and was tormented further. For the Lady he favoured above others wished to become a Queen. Though Éowyn wasn’t aware he knew and certainly hadn’t shared her secret, Faramir recognised her hearts’ desire. The look on her face, when Isildurs’ heir was mentioned, the tone of her voice when she spoke of him gave her away. Still, she refused to face him, preferring to talk to a window.   
“’Tis second time you have told me about your mother. You always mention how beautiful she was, yet sad. You spoke of her, when you gave me her mantle.”  
Éowyn didn’t know, where the conversation was going, and honestly, she didn’t care that much. Anything to keep the talk away from the matters of her heart, or her at all. It relieved her to hear about losses of others, somehow making her own grief more bearable. Or was it just the effect of talking to Faramir? No, that couldn’t be. Yes, she admired him, who in the city didn’t, but that was all. Or at least so she tried to persuade herself. A small smile lit Faramirs’ face.   
“Then you remember my words, Éowyn?”  
Her eyes flew up in surprise, but she didn’t turn. Once again, he had called her by her name. It sent a pleasant shiver up her spine, she couldn’t deny she liked the way it sounded coming from his lips. He always treated her as an equal in the past days they shared and became, could she dare to say it, friends. And a friend should be allowed to call her by her given name, should he not?   
“Yes, I remember.”   
Came a soft answer. She seemed neither appalled nor shocked as she was when he addressed her in this manner for the first time. Perhaps Lady Fortune didn’t loathe him after all. But the chasm between him and Éowyn was still there, darker than ever. A moat, she built to protect herself. She may be the brave shieldmaiden, but she still felt fear, she was rejected, she lost her family. He decided to push his luck and recall their previous conversation.   
“You spoke of your heart before, beyond repair were the words you used. And I ask you why? What was torn can be mended, what broken repaired, what shattered put together. Your heart could be whole again, if only you wanted to. But that is the thing, isn’t it? You do not want it to be repaired. You relinquish despair.”   
He knew he was walking on a thin ice. She could simply order him to go away and never speak with him again, but to his delight, she just sighed and began to talk.


	2. Tortuous threnody

"I killed the Witch-king of Angmar, yet he is the winner of our combat. I defended my uncle with all my might, yet he is dead. I killed a Fell-beast, yet Black-Breath is seeping through me. I am a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, yet I linger here among cripples unable to draw a sword. I wished for love, yet pity is all I was given. I wanted to die, yet I live."  
Her words were deprived of all emotion, walls surrounding her heart stood once again. Faramir's heart clenched at the implied suicide but then anger came. The Lady thought she was the only one suffering such pains? He couldn't let her wallow in sorrow, he loved her too much.  
"He is not the winner, my Lady, but can be if you let him. The Nazgul is quick to discover whatever fears, whatever despair its' prey feels. Black-Breath nurtures them until they grow a hundredfold. Then his quarry perishes wishing its' death to be a quick merciful stab of a sword. "  
Faramirs' words penetrated to Éowyns' mind. She remembered what he told her about defending Osgiliath. Nazgul were attacking the city along with Orcss, which meant he felt their deadly power too. He, always the optimist, who rekindled her hope when they together faced east. How strong he must be, much more the she fancied herself to be. Éowyn turned her head slightly.  
"Those words are not to be read in a book. You speak from experience, do you not? Yet you didn't yield to their power. Healers, however skilled they may be, heal body, not mind or soul. What is your secret weapon, sir? How so, you have managed to maintain hope and didn't fall in despair?"  
Now she turned and stood facing him. Grey eyes, kind and soft which had seen the horrors of countless battles bore deeply into hers. Éowyn suddenly felt very small and insignificant. And his eyes were beautiful.  
"Maintain hope, you say? And I ask you, what is hope? Is hope a refusal to surrender when there is still possibility of victory? Or is it trying to win someone's approval even though he though me good for nothing? Or wooing a lady, whose heart lingers miles away with another man?"  
"I told you before, sir, I do not like riddles."  
"Yet you spoke in them yourself before, my Lady."  
Éowyn didn't know what to reply, since he spoke naught but truth. Instead she focused on the coldness she felt at his return to the formal 'my Lady' and the warmth flooding in her heart at Steward calling her his own.  
"I see you are at loss for words. The hour is late and I long to rest. I look forward to hearing your answer on the morrow."  
With that, he bowed his head and departed without waiting for an answer. The White Lady, in a stunned silence, stared for a long time at the doors of her chamber.

Time passed, yet Éowyn still stared at the oak door. Night was quickly approaching. Instinctively, as she had done thousand times before, Éowyn's hand extended for a brush, bringing it up to her long hair. As she untangled it, her eyes shifted to a mirror hung on the wall.  
'Who would have ever supposed that that is what became of the once grand Lady of Rohirrim. ' Those thoughts plagued her, flying like a swarm of bats through Éowyns' troubled mind as she looked at the image in the clear glass. Gone was the gold from her hair. Strands yellow like old parchment now framed her haggard face. They hadn't known the gentle pull of a hairbrush in a very long time. Colour drained from her cheeks, the skin was almost see-through, giving her a ghostly appearance. Pale blue eyes once resembled a warm shallow sea, now an icy coldness entered them. Lips locked in a constant frown. When was the last time she smiled? In a battle, yes, that horrible battle she wasn't supposed to be in. Her dear uncle asked her to smile, to grant him this last wish.  
Unexpected tears welled in her eyes. How she welcomed the sting of pain they brought! Strange as it may be, not a single tear had she shed upon his passing. All she felt was emptiness of the resignation. She destroyed her ability to feel, wanting to defend herself against pain. Alas, somehow sorrow managed to get inside her mind.  
"You are weak, fair maiden. You won't be able to protect your façade for long."  
She could almost see his face in the mirror, malice dripping from his every word. Her uncle's' former adviser. Grima Wormtongue. He really does justice to his name. He coveted her. Break her spirit and she will submit, that was his testament. However she didn't give in, she remained true to Rohan. She wasn't weak then.  
"No, I am not weak. I didn't break."  
Éowyn repeated that like a mantra until Grimas' face vanished at last from the mirror. But that was only beginning of her trial.  
"The brave daughter of Rohan." A  
nother spirit whispered.  
"Oh Aragorn. You came once again to console me and save me from Grimas' hands?"   
The maiden whispered for no one but herself to hear. Spirit in the mirror continued his speech.  
"What you love is a mere shadow of me."  
"Now in vision you appear to torment me further sir? I believed I truly loved you. You, not your shadow. But this love has perished with the thought at your beautiful elven fiancée. It is dead and buried. Release me, merciless ghost, as I have released the thought of you from my heart."  
Memory after memory, they went on and on, changing ever quicker, spinning away again. Éowyn was helpless against such a force. Various faces spun round her head as she stumbled sobbing through her chamber.  
Then suddenly, with a great anguished cry of "Éowyn!", the door burst open, revealing a male figure. The frightened girl froze where she stood, slowly realizing the figure was no one else but Gondorian Captain. Without a second thought he placed the lantern he was holding at the top of a near wooden chest. He didn't pay any heed to propriety, rushed to trembling Éowyn and crushed her into an embrace. As her breathing slowed and sobbing ceased, she acknowledged she was in Faramirs' arms. But she wasn't angry. He came to comfort her when she needed it most. Those faces in mirror were nothing but memories. Yet he wasn't. He was real. And that brought a strange sense of peace to her troubled mind. She looked into his handsome face and saw he was going to say something. There was no doubt as about what he would like to talk.  
"Please don't ask me about this." she pleaded in a frail voice.  
"If 'tis your wish, I won't."  
And he continued to hold her.


	3. Past time with good company

As the next day dawned, Éowyn, clad in white with blue mantle upon her shoulders, stood once again in the garden of Houses. Tiny braids framed her face. An unearthly glow radiated within her form. At least, that was how it seemed to a silent observer, who hid in shadowed corners of the garden that had yet to be lit by morning sunrays.   
He thought her a stunning woman, but then, as it is said, the beauty lies in the eye of beholder. And what could be more that eyes of a man in love? He never wooed a Lady before, she was the very first one to catch his eye. It had been his brother, who was always surrounded by women and enjoying it.   
Oh, his dear brother. It caused Faramir such a great pain to recall him. To think he would never again be called 'little brother'. Boromir had faith in him and his abilities, being perhaps the only one. Not even Faramir himself believed. And hearing their fathers preaching didn't help his self-esteem in the least. When somebody repeats you over and over that you are of no use, you eventually believe them. He had done everything wrong, though he strived so hard to please his father. To make him acknowledge him, for he had ere long given up hope for winning his love. He failed. He did all he could. He led an army of the finest men to a certain death, just because of Denethor's wish. And to nothing. Be sure Boromir would have had succeeded.  
Never had it occurred to Faramir that the error might not be within him.  
An apprentice healer approached Éowyn, whispered something to her and led her out of the garden back to Houses. Before he could inquire about her retreat, Faramir too, was summoned.  
"And who is the one calling me, if I may ask?"  
He inquired upon his guide.  
"A halfling, the former bearer of the Ring."   
Healer said with a meaningful glance at Faramir.  
"Frodo."  
"Yes, that is his name. "  
"And what about Samwise? Is he here too?"  
"There are three of them. I believe this Samwise is one of them too."  
Meanwhile, they arrived in front of Frodo's chamber.  
"You can wait here, sir. Lord Aragorn is visiting now."  
With clenched fists, Faramir thanked the healer.   
Someone else had to be first again. Once more he had to wait. Always waiting, always second. As his father never failed to point out, firstborn Boromir was his true son. He, Faramir, was a disgrace to his whole lineage and brought shame upon the family name. All of this just because he wasn't born with the heart of a warrior.   
Is it so twisted and unnatural for a man to yearn for knowledge? To rather spend free time in library than at training field? In one of rare moments he was allowed to spend under Gandalf's tutoring, the wizard encouraged him to pursue his interests. That love for music and lore is a sign of a noble and wise man.   
The thought of Mitrandir brought a smile to his handsome face. It was thanks to him and that hobbit thathe still resided among the living. Saved from a funeral pyre, built by his own father. It was actually hard to believe that the former Steward had shown any grief upon the supposed passing of his younger son. A son he wished dead, should it return him Boromir. Yet the young Gondor Captain held no anger for his father. He was past caring, past torturing himself with every spiteful word of distrust and now only acceptance was in his mind.   
He believed that everything happens for a reason, his near-death experience not being an exception. Hadn't it all taken place, he wouldn't be the Steward and Éowyn wouldn't be turned to him with her complaints. And never knowing the White Lady would be indeed a great loss. Though he can't call her his, he would rather die trying than never gaze at her again. Last night's incident rekindled fire of longing in his veins from embers of blind hope.  
Doors, he waited before, opened and Lord came out.  
"Good day Faramir. You may visit Frodo now."  
"I am here to visit both Frodo and Samwise, my Lord."  
"Yes, we should not forget about Sam."  
The two men respectfully bowed to each other and departed.

Finally, Éowyn was well enough to get permission for walks through the city. She felt a bit of fear, the Master Healer sent for her, but her fear was soon replaced with joy, as she was proclaimed free once again. Sometimes Faramir would accompany her to show her secret corners and narrow streets of the White City, sometimes she walked alone.  
Once as she wandered, she met a group of young boys, pretending to fight in an imaginary battle. Most of them had wooden sticks instead of swords but one of them had a real one. Almost real one, wooden, used for trainings. This sword was just being pressed against the ribs of another boy lying on the ground.  
"I got you, you reeking Orc!"  
Exclaimed jollily the wielder of said weapon. The Lady just shook her head and with a hint of smile remembered times when she too played such games. The defeated lad groaned.  
"I yield, to mighty Lord Faramir. But in the next turn, I get to be Lord Faramir!"  
"But you can't be Faramir. He must win and you fight like girl."  
"It is my turn now!"  
Quarrel was snuffed out when a girl came to the group and tried to take the sword.  
"Why must the Captain always be boy? Why do you shunt us girls away? We are as skilled with swords as you are!"  
Éowyn admired the spirit of the young girl, recognising some of herself in her. Foolish girl, to harbour such hopes, thought the Lady, men will never accept us among them.  
"Where were those women warriors when our father battled at The Pelennor Fields?"  
"You mock us, yet it was a woman who slew the Witch King of Angmar. And you are not suited to play Lord Faramir. My mother tended to him in Houses and said he is very kind and wise!"  
With these words, the little girl stomped her feet and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Those boys, they couldn't see more than ten winters, laughed at her. Their leader posed a challenge to the girl.  
"Well then, show me that woman-warrior of yours and I will fight with her. If she can beat me, you will be the Captain."  
Lady decided to step in, before things got worse.  
"Then draw you sword, young man. Behold, I am Éowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, the slayer of Fell-Beast and conqueror of the Witch King. I was watching your play for a while and this girl spoke the truth. Lord Faramir is indeed a very kind, honourable man, accomplished fighter and a great leader."  
Boy was at loss for words, never expecting his challenge to be accepted. Desperate for an excuse, his eyes quickly scanned the place, finding one wooden sword. One sword. You need two for a fight.  
"We have only one sword."  
"I will fight with a stick."  
Éowyn quickly grabbed one and get on a guard position, holding the "sword" a bit further in front of her. Just as she expected, the boy wasn't very experienced and reacted as could be expected from such. He attacked the stick furiously, clashing it with his own, but not even nearing the body his opponent. His lunge gave Éowyn time to prepare her thrust as he had to back off. She decided for a simple attack on his right shoulder from behind her head, one the boy fended off, but only just. Lady swiftly resumed her guard position, waiting for the next blow. The boy tried to slash into the upper part of her left forearm, an attack Éowyn parried. Her next lunge was aimed at his shin, a very low attack. It was actually easy to block simply by firmly pointing with the sword right into the ground, but her opponent choose to dodge it by jumping back and losing time to prepare for the next blow. With a few well-placed trusts, she had him cornered, having utmost control over the combat.   
He was a very easy opponent, not knowing the most basic ways of swordfight. That you must attack your opponent and not his weapon. That when you parry a blow, you must immediately return to guard to attack, or you yourself will be attacked again. The boy, however, seemed appalled when his back was pressed against the stony wall. So surprised, he lost concentration and it wasn't much of a trouble for Éowyn to knock sword out of his hand.   
Then she audaciously and mockingly pressed end of the stick she fought with to his throat.  
"You have still much to learn, young one."


	4. Road to revelation

After the recent encounter, Éowyn wandered through Minas Tirith till the sun began to set. Streets were dusky, chill plagued the air, the vanguard of upcoming night. She went where her feet carried her, and now became quite lost. A smithy on her left side was now abandoned. She drew her cloak closer to her body and hurried up. Where, she knew not.   
Buildings looked more and more shabby. Not minding her footing for a while, the Lady stumbled upon something. It was a rock, a piece of a boulder thrown by catapult. Memories flooded her mind. Will she be ever free again? No, it was not a time to remember what is in past. No, she must find way back to the Houses. They stood in the sixth circle of the city. She had walked down, most of the time. So the logical course of action would be to find a gate that would lead up. But how can she do that? Oh well, perhaps it will be for the best to keep going and either find the right way or ask somebody.   
She mentally berated herself for getting lost. For letting her mind wander, when it should guide her. Foolishly she strayed from known paths, in reverie. Oh, why only had she ventured into unknown streets of Minas Tirith and hadn't stayed in those parts Faramir had shown her! How could she expect to find a way after only four days of going out? Why she hadn't sought his guidance today!   
The latter you know answer to very well, her mind whispered.   
That voice was right, she knew it. Once again, nightmares and memories assaulted her sleep and as she wept, he came. He did so before, five days back. Once more, he hadn't inquired a thing, just as she asked him then. He simply held her and his embrace soothed her. And it brought great embarrassment to the White Lady. Faramir had seen her weak. His very presence made her weak. When he was near, she questioned her heart's desires just like he questioned her every conviction. She hadn't forgotten their dispute about hope. Nor did she forget he asked for answer, but never demanded it.   
Hope, what is it? What does it mean to maintain hope? She thought she understood his words, but day after day, they were more and more enigmatical. Wooing a Lady, he spoke of. Should she, nay, could she hope? Dare to hope that - ?  
Meanwhile her feet carried her through city now fully cloaked beneath night's black mantle of darkness. From behind a corner, a light could be seen in windows of some building. Éowyn sped up. Ere long she stood in front of large doors.   
She lifted her hand and knocked.   
After a moment it became clear that nobody would answer. Loud voices echoed through building, voices of quite drunken men. With a defeated sight, she lifted hand to handle and opened the door. Men inside noticed, who was standing at the doorstep and they immediately fell so silent, that even a fall of a needle upon stony floor would be heard. Every eye turned to her as she stepped in.  
"What made you seek the company of weary soldiers, lady?"   
Asked one of them, his words slightly slurred from more than a few drinks.  
"I got lost and hoped you could show me way back to the Houses of Healing."  
Éowyn's voice rose upon the hall, steady, unwavering, though she felt everything but that.  
"Then I suppose I can help you."   
A gentle voice answered and Éowyn, startled, lifted her face to the bearer of said voice. The crowd parted with few respectful nods and soon enough, Gondor Captain stood before her. He was clad in a light green tunic with tree embroidered in the front, brown riding breeches and appeared to be the only sober among this company. Yes, always reserved, kind, honourable and obviously respected among these warriors.  
"You will have to excuse me, for I will accompany the Lady of Rohan on her way back."  
Faramir opened the door and held it for Éowyn to go first. They departed in shout of "Do not make haste, sir" and "What a nice lass you've got Captain". For the first time since she knew him, Éowyn saw Faramir blush.

The journey was made in silence. Faramir led them through the city, up to the Houses, never hesitating in his steps. Maddening silence yet filled with unspoken questions. As their walk progressed, Éowyn could not stand it any longer and spoke.  
"Say it. Say you are mad at me for getting lost."  
Faramir turned his head to her, face full of confusion and replied.  
"I am hardly mad at you. I do not blame you for wishing to explore Minas Tirith on your own. I only ask you to promise me to be more careful at your wanderings in the future."  
His plea remained unanswered. Oh anger would be welcomed, she knew how to handle it! But this, this, how can she name it? Composure, yes that was the word, that was something new for her. They made it to the Houses in dead-pan silence. Ere long, they stood in front of Éowyn's chambers and the White Lady seems strangely reluctant to bid Faramir farewell. She had no desire to be locked among four walls, tormented first by visions, then by nightmares, both coming mainly from memories.  
"My Lady, I couldn't help noticing, you seem, shall I say it so, terrified at the prospect of going to sleep."  
Gentle grey eyes searched for hers, alas in vain, for Éowyn let her golden hair fall in front of her face, concealing it from the rest of the world. Faramir continued talking, still trying to cache her gaze.  
"Do you remember when I came for the first time here, at night? You were crying, screaming. I came to you and held you 'til you were asleep. Twice already I held you, soothed you and was never once shoved away. When trapped in nightmare, it was me who gave you comfort. Éowyn, permit me to do so once more!"  
And the gentle Captain could almost see a tiny thread connecting edges of the chasm between their hearts. Though it was thin as a cobweb, it was solid as mitril and it glittered in starlight as such. His musings were interrupted by a whisper.  
"Weak."  
He grabbed her shoulders, turned her and forced her to look straight into his eyes.  
"You are not weak. You are the White Lady, the brave shieldmaiden of Rohan. Who was it that made you believe otherwise?"  
"Grima Wormtongue."  
Éowyn spat out that detested name.  
"My late uncles' advisor and the right hand of Saruman."  
She held Faramir's gaze without flinching, yet she didn't seen him, rather focusing somewhere far away, looking right through him.  
"You know this and still believe his words?"  
"Aren't they truth, after all?"  
Faramir looked at her, his eyes gleaming strangely.  
"What makes you believe they are?"  
The woman in his arms smiled sadly, a single tear shed, rolling down her cheek. Before it could reach her jaw, a hand wiped it away.  
"Look at me, just look at me. Standing here, afraid to go to sleep, because of nightmares, like a little frightened child. I am shieldmaiden, yet I do not desire bloodshed, a soldier who likes peace. I am hardly worthy of a company of such a great man and a warrior such as yourself, a mere woman I am."  
Faramir's hand stayed like frozen on her face, now gently cupping her cheek.  
"You are not mere women. You are the one who slew the Witch King of Angmar, the one about whom will people tell tales. And. If I may speak boldly, you are beautiful. Were there elven words to describe your beauty, it would be Gael-Míriel. The one whose beauty shines like a pale jewel."  
Éowyn looked up at him, unasked questions in her gaze. And it was the expression in her eyes, that made him brave. Brave enough to cross the chasm. Brave enough to lean closer and press a kiss to Éowyns' lips. It was soft, swept over them like a butterfly's wing, yet shook both of them to their cores.  
It lasted hardly a second, yet it felt like an eternity.   
With a horrified gasp, Éowyn dashed out of Faramir's arms and submerged into her chamber's. As she closed the door, she leaned back against the hard wood, a sweet smile slowly spreading upon her once stern lips.


	5. The Crowning of the King

On the morrow, Éowyn woke up with an uneasy feeling in her stomach. Slowly, it dawned on her why she was in such distress. Today was the day of the Crowning of the King. She called the women who tended to her, dressed and ventured into the halls of Houses. In the hallway, she met no other than Faramir. After a short, awkward silence, he spoke.  
"Today is the King's coronation."  
'He did not bid me good morning as usual, something must plague his mind.'   
"I know. My brother will be there. And… will you?"  
"I must be. I have to pass the reign of Minas Tirith, as the Steward."  
"Oh, then I will probably see you there, milord."  
"Until then, Lady."  
With a stiff bow and curtsy they departed, each heading in opposite direction, thus ending the whole awkward situation.

Minas Tirith bustled with preparations for the coronation. Streets were being swept. Every single pavement-stone was polished until it reflected the blue sky above. It was such a relief to see sky brightly blue once more. White paint had yet to dry at some wooden facades of newly plastered buildings. Girls sold little flower bouquets, minstrels sang about kings from ancient times, drinking and love. Their songs were filled with joy and hope that now bloomed in hearts of the city's inhabitants. After all, their King had returned.  
The ceremony itself took place at the gates of Minas Tirith. It began with Faramir giving a speech, since he organized it. Among participants stood Éowyn with Éomer. She was so proud of him, the Eorlingas would have a great king in him. It was altogether a nice speech, Faramir certainly had a fine voice. Words flew so easily past his soft velvet lips- Oh no, she cannot possibly think of him in such a disgraceful way.   
'But you can't deny it is true', whispered an annoying voice in the back of her mind.   
'I admire him. He is that kind of a man that isn't possible not to admire. He is wise, brave and kind.' Éowyn ceased to pay attention, fully absorbed in an inner dialogue with her own mind.   
'But that is not all, not in the least,' continued that voice, 'you prefer his company to solitude or horses. What happened to the acclaimed "I do not desire the company of living men?"You calm beneath his touch, when he soothes you, little girl, frightened from nightmares. What happened to the "I do not want pity"? What is it that you want, then? What do you want from him?'   
Straightening herself, Éowyn remained oblivious to her surroundings. Before she could control or even stop it, one single world ran through her mind, the simplest answer.   
'Love.'  
The sudden and unexpected sound of hundreds hands clapping cut in, quickly bringing her back. Fully conscious, though still a bit dazzled, she realized the entire ceremony was over and everyone around her was shouting "King Elessar!" And there he stood, with the crown of his ancestors upon dark hair. No, there was no love in her heart now. She still admired him, respected him, whatever that emotion may be called, but it was no love.  
After the crowning, a large feast was held in halls of Citadel. Fate (or somebody?) wanted it so, that Éowyn ended sitting between her brother and Faramir. And he sat next to Aragorn- no, King Elessar-  
"Why Elessar, why a different name?"  
A gasp came next as she realized she had actually voiced the question aloud.  
"It may have something to do with being brought up among elves. They usually have three names and gain many pseudonyms throughout the years."  
It was Faramir, who answered her question, yet without as much as a single gaze at her. Éowyn sank into her chair.   
'This is going to be a long evening to endure,' she thought.   
But as the feast progressed, everyone seemed much more at ease, as their cups emptied and were filled again. Even Éowyn found herself smiling lightly at the sight of her brother dancing with Imrahil's pretty daughter. Attempting to dance, would perhaps be a better thing to say. Her dear brother was always more comfortable in saddle than in dance. To her surprise, she too, had soon found herself engaged in dance. Her dear friend had nearly dragged her to open space meant for dancing.  
"I must say you are a better dancer that I am, Merry." said White Lady as her hobbit friend led her back to her seat.  
"Practice, my Lady, practice makes perfect."   
He laughed and left her to rest.   
She took another sip of wine. One became two, three, four. Éowyn started to feel a bit dizzy, maybe because of the wine or maybe of the unceasing swirling of dancing couples all around her. She needed to get to fresh air and so she slipped away, unnoticed. Or so she thought. One pair of keen eyes remarked her rather abrupt departure and before he could think better of it, he followed her. Standing beneath stars, beside an old, withered tree, Éowyn noticed her company and said without turning.  
"And now Aragorn is a king."  
"And I am Prince of Ithilien. Who would have ever guessed it?"  
Faramir was now a Prince, yes, she had a vague memory of hearing that declaration. Oh, she should have listened and not argue with her own mind, lost in daydreams.  
"Tell me of Ithilien, the land you hold so dear."  
"It was like a large garden. Deep green forests, lush meadows where various bloomed, bees buzzing around colourful blossoms. Hills gently rising among surrounding landscape. Yes, it was a wondrous land before Sauron returned. And now when he is finally defeated, it can be such a garden once more. Almost perfect."  
"Almost?"  
Faramir chuckled softly, stepping closer to her.  
"Almost. One thing is left to be desired. A hand to tend those flowers. A lady to warm entire Ithilien with her smile and love. That would make it perfect – a home."  
"Love? You still believe. I have scorned love long ago." Éowyn replied, shivering from something other than cold air.  
"Because you were rejected by our King."  
She looked up in surprise only to find his face revealing naught of his emotions. Only grey eyes betrayed him. Hope, love, despair all mixed together in his wistful eyes. Éowyn dropped her eyes, unable to hold his gaze. Embarrassed, she was embarrassed by his statement, by her past feelings. And mostly because she never wanted Faramir to know.  
"Maybe, Lord Faramir."  
"But why forsake strawberries, when the one – the only one – you have tasted was bitter? The other one may be the sweetest one, but you will never find out if you don't try."  
His likening drew a smile upon her face.  
"An interesting analogy indeed. Do strawberries grow in Ithilien?"  
"Yes, they do. They shine among green leaves like rubies and taste so sweet."  
"I wish I could visit the land of the moon."  
And she looked at him once more, so beautiful, standing there beneath starlight. Faramir smiled at her, answer coming from the depths of his heart.  
"I will gladly take you there. As my wife."  
He had seen her eyes widened by sudden realization, yet did not gave her place to retreat and continued talking, finally able to say all the things he had kept in his heart for so long.  
"For I love you Éowyn, brave Shielmaiden of Rohan. Will the White Lady permit me to call her my own?"  
A happy laughter escaped her as she replied.  
"She will. And with delight, for newly- named Lord of Emyn Arnen has somehow found his way into her tattered heart. Nay, I do not scorn love as I stated before. Not when it is freely given, gladly received and, what is crucial, reciprocated."  
With a cry of jou, Faramir enclosed the smiling Lady in his arms and reverently kissed her. The doors to the feast hall had been left open and many had observed them, smiling. Two lonely souls had found each other. Though they were not fully healed, they were slowly mending. One day, the shadow would be gone forever.

The End


End file.
